Hunter Killer (5 page)
‘What’s in this?’ Although he repeated the question, there was a hardening suspicion in the NCO’s mind.
‘I think you know what’s in it, Sarge, but if you want to make sure then go ahead, open it by all means. Be my guest.’ Taking a sip at his coffee and pulling a face at the taste, Clarence reached out for and took the weighty cylinder from Hyde’s grasp.
‘How many rounds have you got?’ Libby maintained his distance. ‘Six.’
The crowd that had gathered drew back as the sniper undid the top and pulled out a single 7.62mm NATO rifle round, unremarkable except for its exceptional length and the unusual yellow and purple colour code bands about its tip. ‘Really, there’s nothing to be afraid of. The depleted uranium core is in a lead sheath.’
‘I’m the armourer, remember.’ Along with all of the others, Libby was staying well clear. ‘Those little buggers were withdrawn a year ago. The shielding’s inadequate. What the hell do you want with them?’ Clarence casually rolled the bullet in his palm, making no move to replace it. ‘On two recent occasions I’ve been in good positions for clear shots at Commie officers; long-range, but nothing exceptional. I’ve hit them and seen them go down, only to watch them get to their feet a few minutes later and sprint for cover under their own power. One of them offered himself a second time, and I only put him down permanently by using a head shot. They’re wearing a new type of body armour, it can’t be anything else…’
‘I ain’t heard nothing about no new body armour.’
Clarence brushed Dooley’s interruption aside. ‘Neither have I, but I’ve seen the evidence. I’m telling you, at a hundred yards or more, the worst those Ruskie officers suffered was a temporary loss of wind and dignity. I want to kill them, not play pat-a-cake. When they go down I want them to stay there, like they usually do.’
There was movement among the front rank of men gathered about the sniper, and Andrea pushed through. She lifted the bullet from his hand and examined it. ‘I thought that these were to be used against light armoured vehicles, or gunners behind shields.’
Retrieving the bullet, Clarence put it back in the cylinder. ‘That was their original use, yes, but if they’ll punch through sixty millimetres of plate at two hundred yards they’ll certainly go through this new personal protection the Ruskies are bringing into use, maybe out to six hundred yards or better.’ ‘If those fancy flak-jackets have got a metal insert, you’ll get the added bonus that they’ll burst into flame, whoosh.’ Dooley turned the flame of his lighter to maximum and watched the six-inch pillar of flickering yellow.
‘So long as the core goes on to do its job, I don’t care if it paints them red, white and blue on impact.’ To end the exchange, Clarence stuffed the container into his pack and concentrated on his coffee. It was all a lot of fuss over nothing, like the mystique that surrounded the atomic demolition troops. Those men thought nothing of racing about the countryside in jeeps, toting suitcase-sized nukes; well, he felt the same about the bullets filled with spent fissionable material. He’d used them when they were first issued, though the strict guidelines had imposed severe limitations on their application on the battlefield. That and the fact that situations where they were suitable or available were not all that common. Even then, by the time he’d observed all the governing regulations, and perhaps first had to eject an already chambered standard cartridge, the moment when he could have used one had often passed.
Now though, he was glad he’d hung on to the bullets, even though coming up with a plausible excuse for not handing them in had not been easy at the time. There was no way he was going to stand by and watch the artillery lads enjoy all of the action. He would find a way to have some portion of it for himself, as large a slice as he could possibly carve.
‘I suppose it could be worse, but I don’t see how.’ The pilot handed the weather report to Major Revell. ‘That’s ten-tenths cloud, heavy snow, and winds gusting at twenty plus from the south and south-west. Forecast says the wind will drop, but not soon enough to do us any good.’
Revell barely glanced at the page torn from the message pad. He’d hardly needed the pilot’s summary either. By following the frequent updates for the DZ he’d gained a good idea of the steadily deteriorating general weather conditions. ‘This mission is important, can you still drop us?’
‘According to the orders I’ve got, I drop you, period. I presume that means regardless of weather or anything else from acts of God down. Either this mission is as important as you say, Major, or you got big enemies back at Headquarters.’
The Starlifter pitched in fierce turbulence, the autopilot correcting the violent motion before the pilot could over-ride it. ‘Will you look at that. I don’t ever get the chance to do any real flying… Like I say though, someone must really have it in for you. Have you crossed anyone real important lately, a three-star general, or maybe a HQ clerk? Tell you what, I wish I weren’t included in the risk with you. I’ve got eight flight-deck and handling crew who feel the same.’
‘How big is the risk under these conditions?’ It was Lieutenant Hogg who asked. He’d seen that their Russian was settled on a spare fold-down seat alongside the flight engineer’s control console, and now took an interest, a very personal interest, in the conversation.
‘Look, I’m no scaremonger, maybe it’s better you don’t know. This is a case where ignorance could be real bliss. What you don’t know you can’t worry over, and anyway, I’m the pilot, I’m the one who has to place the drop . . .’ ‘And we’re the ones who have to make it, so tell us.’
The pilot’s hands rested lightly on the control column, riding with the movements dictated by the autopilot to whose cut-off his eyes kept straying. ‘OK, first, low altitude parachute extraction is strictly a clear skies assignment. If we have this,’ he indicated the large flakes of snow self-destructing against the windows in rapid succession, ‘then we also have problems. We’ve got all sorts of fancy gizmos on board, they’ll give me precise altitude so I let you go at the right height, and position so I let you go in the right place; what I haven’t got is a gadget that, as we go barrelling in at zero feet plus a bit in white-out conditions, is going to tell me whether or not there’s a clump of trees or a building dead ahead.’ Again his hand flirted with the autopilot cut-off, but withdrew. ‘Those sleds you’re going down on travel quite a ways after they touch. There’s three in the drop, so allowing for intervals between each, on an island two miles long I have to find a half mile stretch of reasonably flat land, blindfolded.’
‘Is there anything else, or is that the extent of the horror story?’ Hogg heard the pilot, but kept his eyes on the Russian. The man sat impassively, his heavy- jowelled face revealing no hint of emotion or reaction to the words he must have understood.
‘You want more?’ The pilot turned round in his seat. ‘Alright then, try this on. These big babies were never meant for this work. Starlifters were designed as strategic transports, heavy load, long haul, that’s their business. OK, so this is one of the early models and it’s been modified and re-allocated to tactical re-supply work, but it still isn’t happy hedge-hopping about the place, piddling about with nickel and dime loads that a prop-job could handle.’
‘Just so long as you put us down on the right island, that’s all we ask.’ Revell cut into the exchange.
‘That we can promise, we’re just not offering any guarantees as to what sort of condition your men and equipment will be in by the time the sleds come to a stop.’
Ignoring the pilot’s chuckle, Revell found his own eyes straying to the Russian. It was the first time he’d worked with one of the many deserters from the Warsaw Pact, armies. The man was an archetypical Russian; stocky build, dark deep-set eyes, with heavy features that betrayed little of his thoughts and no hint of any capacity for humour. Perhaps it was because of his appearance, and the fact that his actual name, Vasili Shalamov, did not trip readily from the tongue, that everyone had taken to-calling him Boris. He wondered what the man’s reasons were not just for deserting - God knows there were enough reasons for men to leave the Soviet forces by any means they could - but for volunteering his services to NATO. The lengthy screening process he’d have been subjected to should have weeded him out if he was a plant, but some always got through and had built a mountain of distrust towards their sort as a whole. Only rarely were they assigned any task other than rear-area or pioneer work, and then only under the very strictest supervision, though with the growing numbers involved, there were rumours of the formation of Free-Russian combat units.
‘Is the island inhabited?’
The accent was impeccable textbook English that would not have been out of place on a BBC news bulletin. Revell hadn’t been told what rank the Russian had held, but he must have at the very least been the equivalent of a technical sergeant, first-grade. His immediate reaction to the question was to ignore it. The instinct sprang in part from his natural distaste for contact of any sort with a people that two years of barbaric warfare had taught him to hate, and partly from a distrust that all the assurances from I-Corp could not shake off. But damn it, the man was going with them, was taking the same risks, more if he came to be captured, and in any event he’d soon learn the truth for himself.
‘No, not now. Before the war the west coast of Sweden was a popular tourist area in summer. There’s a few holiday homes on the island, mostly the converted houses of what used to be a small fishing community, and the remains of an old castle at the northern tip. The rest of it is much the same as the hundreds of other islands along the coast.’
‘You still have much to learn about the Russian mind.’ Boris watched the fuel gauges on the engineer’s panel ticking away the fractions of tons of fuel with each mile they travelled. ‘In the West to be among a crowd is to be safe; in Russia, to be among a crowd is to invite danger.’
‘Either way, you’re about to find out.’ The pilot eased his headphones off and called back to Revell. ‘I’ve got Malmo tower on; in five minutes I start my lame duck routine. You better board your bus.’
For, the fifth time Burke checked his seatbelt, tightening it yet again. He’d positioned himself in the second row, so that by holding on to the back of the seat in front he at least had the illusion of a degree of control over what was about to happen.’ The flashing red light high up on the front bulkhead gave off a continuous glow. Two more minutes. At one and the same time he wanted to get it over with, and for it never to happen. It seemed as if his heartbeat was counting down the seconds to the moment when the rams would push the sled back along the fuselage, the chutes would deploy and they’d be snatched out into space. Closing his eyes to hide the still unlit green bulb from his sight didn’t help, it only made the clock inside him louder, until its pumping roar filled his ears.
Revell was the last to take his place. As he sat down alongside Hyde in the back row he took a final look across the several rows of seats. The two groups had remained clannishly separate, with most of the artillery men occupying the left of the cabin. It made him think of a neatly packed box of toy soldiers, waiting for the next game. An involuntary shudder ran through him as he fastened his lap and shoulder straps together. Had Hyde noticed it? He gave no sign, but then none was ever to be found in the British sergeant’s face.
Now the aircraft was pitching more violently and the movement was being transmitted to the men, even through the sprung floor of the cabin. To Revell it was a sure sign that they were right down low, making the final approach.
The green light went on, its brightness blotting out the red even as it faded, then that too was extinguished as a sudden jarring lurch severed the cabin’s umbilical link with the aircraft’s systems with a jerk. They were on their way.
FOUR
The cabin moved more smoothly as the powerful rams overcame the initial resistance of the metal runners. Dooley felt the aircraft rise as the first sled went out, noting the pilot’s immediate correction to the controls. He sensed they were moving faster, then the Starlifter soared again as the second sled followed. It was their turn next. He clamped his teeth on the piece of rubber he’d been given and closed his eyes against the sensation he knew was coming.
There was a savage wrenching acceleration and suddenly the cabin seesawed wildly and the contents of his stomach raced for his throat. His mouth filled with foul taste and he was conscious of being weightless one moment and undergoing the stress of several ‘g’ the next, as the brake parachutes levelled the yawing sledge and violently checked its speed.
Dooley only had an instant to register the total silence and absence of vibration as he opened his eyes to the pitch-black of the interior, then the runners made their first contact with the ground. Despite all the springing, it felt as though a thousand sets of steel-shod boots were trying to kick his backside over the moon. That was followed immediately by a second massive jolt, and then the world burst apart.
A torrent of bricks and splintered beams, lit by sheets of sparks, hurtled in through the crushed left front of the cabin. Glass and fragments of wood scythed from the dust and crashed into the walls of the cabin, some of them clattering and rebounding from the steel helmets of the men crouched low in their seats. ‘Stay where you are. Stay in your seats.’ Even as Hyde’s bellow filled the interior, the thunder of the collision ceased abruptly and his shouted words encountered no competition for the men’s attention.
Canted over at a steep angle, the first frantic attempts at movement by some of the men had caused the cabin to rock and threaten to turn over. The pitching ceased as they resumed their places.
It was quiet, except for a low moaning coming from the front. A torch flicked on, its beam picking out the dust filling the air as its circle of pale yellow illumination lit up the extent of the damage.
Hyde cautiously began to unfasten his harness, then had to grab at the loose ends to stop himself being thrown to the floor as the cabin lurched sideways and slid downhill to a second, more gentle collision than the first. Blasts of ice-cold air whirled snow into the cabin through the gaps among the debris wedged into the damaged front quarter.